


I Can't Help But Pull the Earth Around Me (To Make My Bed)

by callmejude



Series: Ice and Brine [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Choking, Drunk Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: It's Robb's nameday, but Theon goes to Jon.





	I Can't Help But Pull the Earth Around Me (To Make My Bed)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't tag "underage" because sixteen is clearly not underage in this universe. Still, I figured I'd be safe and put a warning here before you read.

It’s late enough that only one person could be knocking on Jon’s door. The little ones were put to bed hours ago, and none of the others would ever come looking for him so late at night. He swings his door open, unsurprised. Theon’s smile is lopsided and his eyes dazed, fingers wrapped tight against the long neck of the glass jug that he must have stolen from the kitchens.

“Father will be furious if he finds out you’ve been stealing wine.”

“Not _my_ father,” Theon shrugs with a chuckle. “My father’d be right proud of me.”

Jon rolls his eyes. Theon grins and hands him the wine.

“Go ahead. Lord Stark will only have my head for it, anyway.” 

Jon hands it back with a silent shake of his head. He has no need to be drunk for this, not like Theon always seems to.

When he and Robb were children, Jon remembers finding it strange that Theon would dote on Robb so, that though he was almost five years older he would follow alongside Robb as if he were the leader. Theon had gone to Jon then, too, though their nights together were much more innocent, at that age. Childish wrestling that turned into curious kissing before Theon would run away and refuse to speak of it afterwards.

Jon never minded, really. He enjoyed Theon’s company enough as the only other outsider of the family — perhaps even moreso than Jon was, to everyone but Lady Catelyn — but he knew better than to think Theon preferred him at all. He had expected this tonight. It was Robb’s sixteenth nameday. So much attention being showered on Lady Catelyn’s firstborn son that Robb has no time for Theon all day, leaving him feeling scorned and alone. 

Theon would never admit to such silly jealousies, instead showing up drunk at Jon’s door every time he feels them.

He should really learn to stop letting him in, Jon muses as he steps aside to make way for him. Theon downs the wine before he bothers to even step into Jon’s room. He places the empty jug on the floor beside the door and stretches.

“Busy day, wasn’t it?”

It wasn’t, for them. They were invited to the feast, but only as a forced sort of courtesy, seated away from the family and visiting lords. Jon never likes to stay long, always feeling Lady Catelyn’s shrewd eyes on the back of his neck. Jon only shrugs in response, feeling sullen. He wonders how Theon feels in those sorts of family gatherings, or if he doesn’t mind it the few times he gets seated next to Robb.

“Your nameday will be soon enough,” Theon adds with a cruel sort of laugh, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t look so miserable.”

“Very funny,” Jon grumbles. 

Neither of them have raucous feasts or celebrations on their namedays, but at least Theon receives gifts from various lords looking to stay in the graces of his House. Jon’s nameday is only really celebrated by the Stark children. Sansa may sew him a quilt. Young Arya will harass the cooks into baking apple cakes that she steals away for him. Theon never comes to see him on Jon’s nameday.

Still chuckling, Theon drops his hand from Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon hates this part; all the hesitation and stalling. The part where Theon remains suspicious or insecure, as if today will be the day that Jon will reject him. It’s best to skip past it, Jon finds. He leans forward and drags Theon down by the collar of his stitched leather doublet, standing on the balls of his feet to kiss him with enough force to shut him up.

Theon pulls away, visibly relaxed, and huffs a laugh in Jon’s face. “Worse than the girls, you are.”

For a moment, Jon considers admitting _“Maybe I just want to get this over with,”_ but Theon is far more tender than he lets on, and goading him will get neither of them anywhere tonight. Jon wants to get the stalling over with, not the rest. He likes the attention that comes afterward.

Theon is mad at Robb — jealous for not having his attention today — which means he’s in a forceful mood. Without another word, Theon pulls Jon to his bed and shoves him down against the furs, crawling on top of him before either of them have shed a single garment. It’s usually like this, which doesn’t bother Jon. But he is ashamed to admit he likes it best when Theon feels guilty, torn apart from a fight he’s had with Robb or some such nonsense, letting Jon curl over him and kiss his neck.

Theon doesn’t kiss that way. Though, in fairness, he will permit it from Jon, and will kiss back if Jon reaches for his mouth. When in a dark mood, however, Theon prefers to bite, sinking his teeth into Jon’s neck, his back. It’s light enough now that it won’t leave a mark. Theon boasts about having had every whore in the North at least twice, but Jon has never been with anyone but Theon — and Theon is a secret. Marks are only left under Jon’s clothes, and they’re still dressed.

Jon lifts his hands to undo the buckles of Theon’s vest. The brass fastenings are plain, like the rest of his clothes. Marked without direwolves or krakens. Jon notices this every time they lie together, and it always gives him pause before pushing the layers from Theon’s shoulders. Just to marvel at another in this house who wears clothes void of sigils. Theon never seems to take notice of his hesitance, or at least has never discovered why, and Jon knows better than to mention such things. Theon is a proud boy, the only living heir of the Iron Islands. To insinuate otherwise would infuriate him. 

Jon is still toying with the drawstring of his tunic, scanning the vague summary shapes stitched into the fabric. Robb has a tunic much like this, direwolves sewn in a pattern over the shoulders and down the sleeves. Jon almost wants him to keep it on while they do this, so that he can pretend Theon is a bastard, as well.

“Don’t get shy on me, Snow.”

Frowning, Jon pulls the linen from Theon’s shoulders, watching as Theon’s back curves and flexes to help shed it. He’s still watching when Theon’s tunic hits the floor. He doesn’t bother to stop. Theon enjoys him staring, he knows. He’s proud of his body, sinewy and strong, muscles tight and slim under pale skin. He has reason for his arrogance. Theon hasn’t made a move for Jon’s clothes yet, though Jon wishes he would. He may prefer when Theon is gentle, but he still enjoys the biting. Marks like a claim. Maybe he doesn’t belong as a Stark, but he can belong here — pinned underneath Theon Greyjoy. At least for a moment.

He doesn’t kiss. Jon moves to lift his head, but Theon has finally turned his attention to stripping Jon, roughly tugging the shift from his arms. Jon sighs, feeling needy. Theon’s eyes don’t linger on his body. He only bows forward to bury his teeth into Jon’s shoulder. He locks his jaw and pushes hard against Jon’s chest. 

The pain causes Jon to hiss, but Theon is only encouraged by the sound, moving to bite low on Jon’s throat as his hands move to work the trousers from Jon’s hips. Once he tosses them to land beside his tunic on the floor, he doesn’t bother with his own. Instead he leans far over Jon to root around in his bedside drawer for his lamp oil.

Not for the first time, Jon wonders if Theon prefers Jon to disrobe him. There’s no reason for it, at least not that Jon can imagine, other than a modicum of power. Perhaps, he considers foolishly, Theon feels more to this than just wishing Jon were Robb, but he’s never let on such things. To keep himself from asking, Jon tugs at the drawstring of Theon’s pants and pulls them down far enough for Theon to kick off.

Jon often wonders how many men Theon has had this way. It’s possible Jon is the only one. Male prostitutes aren’t hard to come by in the winter town, but even as Jon watches Theon slick oil onto his fingers, the idea of him bedding other men somehow feels unlike him. The only man Theon seems to have eyes for has always been Robb. 

The ridiculous desire to ask questions is still burning on Jon’s tongue, so he sits up to kiss Theon instead. He likes to kiss now, anyway. It keeps him from making any embarrassing sounds. Theon loves to tease him when he does. He feels the smile tug at Theon’s lips even as he kisses back. He still treats every time with Jon as if it’s Jon’s first time. It would almost be kind of him, if he didn’t make snide comments about Jon’s inexperience, smirking and telling him how he hasn’t learned a thing. Jon assumes he always will, no matter how many times they do this. 

His calloused archer fingers move so expertly inside him that Jon thinks Theon must have done this with at least a thousand other men. It’s hard to focus on kissing, on staying silent. Jon can feel his face burning. Perhaps the reason why Theon teases him is because Jon can never seem to hide his embarrassment at being touched.

He wonders how Theon manages — if he ever felt shy or foolish in his own nudity. He can’t imagine a Theon so naive, even knowing him his whole life.

“You make noises like a girl, Snow.”

Jon hadn’t realized he was making any sound at all. Theon watches him this way, sometimes, but only — it seems — to mock him. Jon chews on his tongue to keep from embarrassing himself further, and Theon slides his hand away to roll more oil onto his cock.

After nearly two years of this, Jon knows to relax, but he can never seem to. Though he’s rarely in a gentle mood, Theon is never cruel when he first enters Jon. He must know what it feels like. He always keeps one hand tight on Jon’s hip to hold him still — his other hand always locked with one of Jon’s, just for a moment. Sometimes, if Jon moves or makes a sound, Theon will tuck his face against his neck. He won’t kiss him, but doesn’t bite him, either; just presses skin to skin, and it almost feels like comfort. Jon wonders if he even realizes he does it. Theon is haughty and curt, but he is not as ruthless as his family name implies. He is not here for Jon, but he would never wish to hurt him. Though he boasts so childishly of his sexual talents, Theon does seem to have the necessary skill behind it. At least, Jon is never left wanting.

Jon is not in love with Theon Greyjoy, but he doubts he’d sleep with any man besides him. He feels anyone else would only be a disappointment.

Teeth sink into Jon’s shoulder again, harder this time. Jon reaches up and nests his fingers in Theon’s hair, testing. Theon doesn’t pull away, doesn’t pin his hand against the furs of his bed. He’s not too angry, then. Maybe more hurt, than anything, in need of comfort. Jon lets his hand cup the back of Theon’s head, and feels the skin of his shoulder start to split. Jon whimpers without meaning to, and Theon’s jaw releases in an instant. He laves his tongue over the bite like a wild dog before straightening his back to look down at Jon with a crooked smirk as he rocks into him.

Jon’s hand is still buried in Theon’s hair. Curious, he wraps his legs around Theon’s hips to pull him closer, smiling at the way the cocky grin falters from his face. Feeling oddly bold, Jon hoists himself forward and flips Theon onto his back, drowning out his gasp of surprise with his own yelp from the change in pressure. 

“Gods, Snow.”

Jon blinks down at him. He never calls Jon by name once they’re like this, not until after. 

The smirk is back up on his face, though looking a little more winded than he had before. They haven’t even gotten started and Theon’s chest is heaving. Had Jon surprised him that much? If he’s smiling it must mean it was a good surprise. It must be something Robb would do. When Jon bows to kiss him, Theon lifts his head to meet him this time. It makes him feel different. Powerful. He can still feel Theon smiling in the kiss, as if he knows.

The kiss has changed. Timid, almost, as if Theon is in one of his gentler moods, and Jon melts into it. Theon hates his own softness, hides his tender heart, but it is undeniably there. Jon notices. It makes him feel important when Theon forgets to bury it, almost as if Jon is the first trueborn son of his father, someone deserving of the Stark name, and of Theon’s adoration and subservience.

Theon seems to know what he’s thinking. He bites down on Jon’s lip with the huff of a laugh, causing Jon to pull away with a quiet yelp. Theon’s face is smug when Jon glares down at him.

“Is that all the fight in you, Snow?”

Jon frowns. “We’re not fighting.”

“Sure we are,” Theon answers, pushing up on his elbows to try and twist Jon onto his back. Shivering from the jolt of sensation down his spine, Jon shoves him down hard and holds him still, one hand pressed firm against his breastbone. Theon’s eyes are bright when he smiles and locks his ankles around Jon’s waist, dragging himself deeper. 

His voice is raw when he adds, “See, that’s it.”

Even as sparks bolt along Jon’s spine, something heavy settles in his chest. He wonders if this is how Theon would be with his brother. Theon was the youngest son of the Greyjoys, taken from the Iron Islands and thrust into a family where he is suddenly the oldest — it must be strange for him. As Theon grins crookedly at him, Jon realizes he’s always assumed that Theon had it better, as a trueborn lord of his own lands, as someone not openly resented by Lady Catelyn. But Theon’s fingers bury into Jon’s dark hair with an untapped delicacy as he tugs him closer, Jon thinks that perhaps Theon has reason to be jealous of him. 

Theon would never admit it himself, but he is not built to lead. He does not wish to be in charge of anything. Not even sex with a bastard.

Nails dig into Jon’s nape and Theon’s eyes are boring into him. What more would he want from Robb that he’s too shy to ask for from Jon? Curious, Jon slides his hand up Theon’s chest to his neck, pressing his thumb down hard into his jugular, watching his eyes fly open wide. The hair at the back of Jon’s neck tickles as it stands straight up from his skin. He’s never considered before just how deeply Theon wants to follow. He’s not even sure if Theon knows it himself. Jon rocks back against his cock and watches Theon’s eyes turn glassy as he whines.

Before he can stop himself, Jon pictures how Theon would look while pinned under Robb, keening and begging, far more pliable and wanton than he is for Jon. The idea only makes Jon heady and bold, leaning forward to bite down on Theon’s neck — curious how it feels from the other side.

He can feel Theon shudder under the grip of his jaw and bites down harder, the hand still at Theon’s throat clenching tight, pressing him into the bed. When Jon pulls away, Theon’s eyes have rolled over white, and Jon has to quell the urge to tear him apart — rip into his skin until blood soaks into Jon’s furs. It’s startling, and Jon shakes the thought from his head, pulling back just enough so that he can hear how hard they’re both panting.

Even as the urge subsides, Jon can feel words too blunt for his tongue as he watches Theon twist underneath him. _Do you want him to hear us? Does he know that we do this?_

“Say his name, I don’t mind. I’ll pretend, too.”

Nails bite into Jon’s shoulder, and Jon realizes he’s said the last thought aloud, but Theon’s too far gone to look ashamed for it. He doesn’t even seem to have heard. His hips are rocking so hard into Jon they’ve ceased any sort of rhythm.

Jon’s hand starts to fall limp from Theon’s neck, but Theon screws his eyes shut and snaps, “ _No._ ”

The answer falls out before Jon can stop it. “Don’t tell me no.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Theon’s voice is breathless as he surges up and buries his face in Jon’s neck. It’s a sort of control Jon hasn’t felt before in any sense, and makes him feel dizzy and drunk despite the lack of wine. He grabs a fistful of Theon’s hair and rips him away from the crook of his neck, pulling him into a desperate kiss that causes Theon to groan against Jon’s mouth. His hand reaches for Jon, but Jon’s fingers are already wrapped around himself, jerking until he comes hard on Theon’s stomach.

Gasping, Jon tears Theon away from him to look at the mess he’s made dripping onto his own furs. Theon follows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing so hard it sounds as if he’s wheezing.

They don’t say anything to each other, even after Jon climbs off of him. He has a basin of water near his door for night washing, but his muscles ache too much to move, and Theon doesn’t seem to feel allowed. Jon can’t stand the silence.

“Go wash up, would you?”

Theon snorts, taking a sweeping bow as he gets to his feet. “Of course, _m’lord_.”

When Jon glares at him, Theon only grins. He wipes himself down with a wet rag by the wash basin glancing out Jon’s darkened window. He seems to find it funny enough to still be smiling when he comes back to Jon’s bed, dropping back down onto the wolfskins with a sated little huff.

Neither say a word. After a moment, Theon lays flat on Jon’s bed with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. Jon stares at him. He’s usually left by now, but the wine and sex has made him lethargic. Jon watches Theon’s back curl up from the bed like a bow as he stretches, the content grin still on his face. Abruptly, Jon is shy. Part of him wishes his clothes were within reach, or that Theon would get up from the wolfskins on his bed so he could cover himself. Theon has nothing to be shy of — but Jon feels incredibly small in comparison. In body and personality. It shouldn’t matter, Theon’s eyes are closed. He isn’t looking at Jon. He never really does.

As Jon watches, Theon starts to snore quietly. He’s often joked about nodding off in the whore house, but he’s never done so here. Jon’s eyes linger on his face. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen Theon asleep. They must have been young children. The years melt off him in sleep. The creases in his brow and mouth from all his scowling and sour tempers have gone lax, and he doesn’t look much older than Jon remembers him.

Careful not to put too much weight where Theon lies, Jon props himself up on an elbow to watch him sleep. He’s not sure why, but seeing him this way, Jon doesn’t want him to wake. It’s not fair to Theon — he would never want to sleep here — but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. In this moment, Theon is asleep in his bed.

Jon doesn’t dare touch him, but he’s surprised to find that he wants to. Theon’s snores fall silent, and Jon cocks his head to the side, considering the possible outcomes of leaving him be.

Without warning, Theon cracks an eye open, most likely feeling Jon’s stare.

“Why’re you pouting at me now?”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You’re _always_ pouting,” Theon argues.

It’s so strange for him to act like what they’ve just done hadn’t happened at all. Jon is never as good at it. He decides not to bother debating Theon any further on his own mood. Instead he asks flatly, “Do you prefer boys?”

Theon snorts. “No.”

It’s too flippant to be a lie. He doesn’t seem to care if Jon believes him or not, with his reputation. He has no trouble liking both.

“You don’t even like me,” Jon says instead of asking another question.

Theon shrugs, sitting up. He sees this becoming a conversation he doesn’t want to have. He pulls his pants from the floor and steps into them from his seat on the bed, ignoring the mess on his skin. “I don’t have anything against you, either.”

Jon wonders if that’s all it takes. “You have no problem finding _girl_ whores.”

It sounds petulant, and Jon instantly regrets saying anything.

“You’re cheaper than the whores, for one,” Theon says from under his shirt as he pulls it over his head. He waits until the linen is smoothed on his shoulders before he adds, “And I know you won’t tell.”

Offended, Jon scoffs. Theon doesn’t notice, pulling on his doublet. When he gets to his feet, he notices Jon scowling, and laughs.

His laugh has always been meaner than he is — cold and sharp. When he reaches for Jon, it feels as if it will be to slap him, but he only tousles Jon’s hair. Jon bats his hand away.

“I only mean it as a compliment. You’d never tell a soul, would you? You have more of Lord Stark’s honour than all the children of his name combined.”

It’s perhaps the nicest thing Theon has ever said to him, and it catches him off-guard. He must look struck, because Theon laughs again. He gives Jon’s hair a gentle tug, and when Jon leans forward, Theon kisses him. It’s soft and light, and too brief for Jon to react to. When he pulls away, Jon can feel himself gaping. Theon gives him a light slap on the cheek before straightening his back and turning on his heel.

“Sleep well, Snow,” he says over his shoulder before closing the door.

Jon lays back in bed and wonders if what they do might not all be about Robb, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Florence + the Machine's "Ship to Wreck"


End file.
